


Blue Hope

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Fluff, Hope, Lost Hope, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is the doctor, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Time Travel, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:40:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: “You will find a place where you belong, Sherlock. I know that’s what you want, what you think you can never have, but you can. You’re not like me, you’re not bound to travel until the end of your existence. You will find home."





	Blue Hope

**Author's Note:**

> English is my second language, so bear with me please
> 
> not beta
> 
> I just started writing and this is what happen :D

Mycroft Holmes instinctively knows the call is about Sherlock. Late night phone calls to his private phone always are.  
Richard Turner sounds tired and he only tries to hold back the annoyance in his voice because he is aware who he is speaking to. The name Mycroft Holmes puts a different kind of fear into people than the name he has given himself in the years, centuries before. 

“Mr. Holmes. This is about your brother. Sherlock just came to be to inform me that he will be gone in the morning. He plans to leave our institution, again.” Mycroft has heard those words before, and twice form Dr. Turner. “I know who you are, how important you are, but if he refuses treatment again, there is nothing I can do. Not even for the little brother of Mycroft Holmes.” 

Mycroft holds back a huff of frustration. Sherlock needs rehab, but it also bores him to death and boredom is the reason he needs rehab in the first place. It’s a vicious cycle and Sherlock is the only one who could break it, if only he wanted to.

“Be assured that my brother will have changed his mind in the morning. Do sleep well, Dr. Turner.” Mycroft ends the call, hands shaking. No one has ever mattered as much as Sherlock does, for reasons Mycroft can’t explain and one more time, he will try to save him. It’s what he always tells himself when Sherlock leaves a rehabilitation centre. 

The key is hidden under some books in his office and he uses it to unlock the secret door for the first time in almost five years. There is another key hidden under the floorboards, a rather uncreative way to conceal something so important, but effective anyway. 

The blue looks greyish in the dim light and he runs his hand over it, the structure of the wood so familiar under the tips of his fingers. “Hello, old friend,” he whispers “, want to go on a little trip with me? For old times sakes.” The door screeches as he opens it slowly, stepping into the Tardis. He missed this. He knows he can’t go back, not as long as he has this face. He promised to himself he would help the world by staying in the shadows as long as he has this face.  
Getting the Tardis into gear is like driving a bike, one rarely unlearns it and the sounds the Tardis makes put a smile on Mycroft’s face. 

 

Sherlock is, of course, not surprised by his arrival, merely by his means of transport. He jumps out of bed with an energy Mycroft wouldn’t have expected from a man so frail and thin from the drugs he put into his body over years.  
“I always thought the weird blue box was a figment of my imagination that I came up with as a child.” Sherlock looks at the Tardis with curious eyes. “I thought the adventures we went on when I was five or six where just dreams. But they were real, weren’t they? The pirates, the aliens. Which, in conclusion, also means you are not my brother. Not even human in fact.” Sherlock looks at him and there is hurt on his face.  
“They were. And I am not. I… the position I have in the British government required me to leave no room for doubt as to where I came from and when I met you, travelled with you, the most clever human I had ever met, I made myself part of your family. Mummy and father are convinced they had a son before you were born. It was quite the successful arrangement for all of us. It gave you a big brother to look after you.”  
Mycroft touched the violin case on the bedside table. Sherlock had already packed his belongings. 

“This is your last straw then? You want to take me into time and space one more time to make me change my mind.”  
The older man smiled without real joy. “Not an adventure I’m afraid, brother dear. But I would like to show you something before you decide whether you want to throw your life away like this.” He holds open the door and to his surprise, Sherlock steps inside.

“Bigger on the inside. I only accept the concept because I’ve seen stranger things as a child and on heroin. It doesn’t really make sense, I suppose. Having a time machine that is big on the inside when all you do with it is travel alone or with one other person. Would just a box be enough?” The younger Holmes grins, a hand on the consol. 

“Ah, well. I didn’t build it, you know. I just stole it. I suppose one could live in a Tardis. Most timelords don’t pick a place to stay and their Tardis is home.” Mycroft pushes a few buttons and pulls on a lever. 

“So, where are we going?” 

“Home.” A small smile flashes over the older man’s face.

“Your home?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow as Mycroft makes his way to the door. 

“No. Come with me.” 

They step outside an onto the street, wet with rain. Mycroft likes rain, most of the time, except for the deadly one, but that never happens on earth. Not usually.  
“This is London.” Sherlock looks around him, at the buildings, the sky. “How boring. I thought we were going somewhere special. This is about motivating me to continue rehab, to continue life to be drastic.” 

Mycroft walks along the street, expecting Sherlock to follow and he does, a few steps behind. “I know that, brother dear. That’s why I brought you here. Time can be rewritten, and you need to understand the choices you make have consequences.” He stops in front of a black door, searching his jacket pocket.  
“Here.” He hands one of the rings to Sherlock. “This will keep the people we are going to visit from noticing us. Makes it easier.” He puts the second one onto his ring finger, honoured by the trust Sherlock has in him as his little brother follows his example. 

With the help of his umbrella, he opens the door and they step inside. To his surprise, Sherlock is very quiet as they walk up the stairs. Mycroft expected some sarcastic comment, but over the last months, Sherlock has been far from being himself most of the time. He has given up. Overdosed a month ago and Mycroft can’t help but think it was on purpose. 

The little girl looks up from her book when the door opens. She looks confused, but goes back to reading, babbling to herself. She is sitting in a black chair that makes her look even smaller, but she looks comfortable, a red blanket covering her legs. Blond curls have been tried to be tamed into pig tails to frame a round face. She is, objectively speaking, cute and Mycroft, who is a time lord, not a psychic, is a little surprised to see a child here. No matter what life he had expected for Sherlock he had never seen him as a … heterosexual. 

Next to him, Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on her blue eyes. “Who is she?”  
“I don’t know. The Tardis chose our destination, as she always does. She is important, though. And most likely from your future considering the technology present in the flat.”

“My future? There’s only a 20% chance I’ll make it to the next year.”

Mycroft’s answer is interrupted by a man making his way into the flat, miraculously just stepping through the space in between them.  
He is short, and his grey hair is wet from the rain. 

“Daddy.” The girl closes the book and gets up with difficulty, legs all caught up in the blanket and the man giggles as he kneels to help her. Mycroft doesn’t look at what happens next because the look on his brother’s face is more important. 

The sound of the man’s laugh does something to Sherlock. For a second, the sadness in gone form the tired eyes. Mycroft is remined of the boy he met years ago, the boy who loved pirates and played with oods. He misses that boy who got stolen away by drugs in college. 

“Hello, little one.” The man has managed to get his daughter free and is now hugging her. “Daddy. Wet. Stop.” She squeaks, and he laughs again.  
“It’s your bath time anyway, love. And then we’re going downstairs to see Nana for dinner.” He carries her into the kitchen and their voices become quieter as they enter what is supposedly the bathroom.

The brothers are alone now and for a moment they just stand there. Sherlock is the one to move first. He crosses the room in three large strides and takes a framed picture from the mantle. The noise he makes sounds pained and Mycroft hurries to his side. 

The picture shows the girl and the short man sitting on a bench in a sunny park, both of them smiling at the camera. The man’s head rests on the shoulder of the person next to him and Mycroft knows it’s Sherlock before he even looks at the face. He, of course, looks at least ten years older, but the wrinkles on his face are caused by happiness. 

“That’s… that’s…” Mycroft has never seen the younger man lost for words. “Home. You meant my home. I … I have a home.” Sherlock touches the glass just where the men’s fingers are intertwined. A moment later, he puts the frame back onto the mantle and runs. 

Mycroft is not a fan on leg work, but he follows as fast as he can, only catching up because Sherlock has stopped only meters from the front door. The rain has grown heavier and the younger Holmes is already soaked to his bones. Opening his umbrella, Mycroft joins him on the pavement. 

“You will find a place where you belong, Sherlock. I know that’s what you want, what you think you can never have, but you can. You’re not like me, you’re not bound to travel until the end of your existence. You will find home, if you only make the right choices. And they won’t be the easiest choices. Rehab isn’t easy, but you know you can do it if you only wanted to.”

Sherlock is crying; tears mingling with the rain. “You bastard. You fucking bastard,” Sherlock blurts out.  
And the hope in his eyes is enough for Mycroft to start believing in Sherlock Holmes again

**Author's Note:**

> My first crossover. What do you think? 
> 
> comments are appreciated and always answered


End file.
